


Prayer in Blood

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [7]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon/AU, Dysfunctional Romance/Relationships, F/M, Gen, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To give one's heart to another brings one closer to God.  It is the prayer of every heart to know love.  But sometimes it is a prayer offered in blood.  The blood of a broken heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayer in Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Set during episode 7, "Penguin's Umbrella" - a mix of canon events and AU to include Iris and a few changes to the overall plot. I upped the rating on this one for the descriptions of self-mutilation; hopefully nothing too graphic, but if it is, please feel free to let me know.

_Six months later…_

“You know, we weren’t really sure what was going to happen to you.” 

From behind her, the voice of Butch Gilzean—a name she knows quite well from whispered commentary throughout the precinct, from the warning tale Detective Bullock offered her from the beginning, six months ago, in hopes of ushering her away from a career at James’ side—speaks with a cocky smirk hanging onto each word. He leans a little closer, over the couch where she and Barbara are currently sitting; the latter is frozen in place, eyes trained straight ahead and hands clasped tight in her lap. On the coffee table, the phone continues buzzing, time after time after time. Sometimes, Barbara’s eyes dart down to it, and then she looks right back up again. Her hands fist together, as though resisting the urge to reach out and grab the phone and beg James—because, really, who else would be calling time and time again?—to hurry and come and save the day.

“We had a running bet within the club, though.” Gilzean continues, “Some thought you were going to end up out of state, in some little cozy farmhouse. A few of us thought you’d end up on the streets, working as a hooker for the local boys.”

He nods at his companion, a dark-haired wisp of a man whose gun looks far too large to be on his belt and it’s obviously too heavy for his thin hands. This, she thinks, is a man who does not know how to use a gun, not really. “Didn’t think you’d ever end up here, did we?” Gilzean asks; the other man shakes his head, compliant as a little lamb. “No, ma’am…not here. Attached to Gordon’s hip like a puppy. It’s precious, really.”

_Your modesty is precious._ She swallows back a cold wave of emotion as the word, unintentionally and involuntarily, triggers memories and brings the sound of his voice to the forefront of her memory. A voice she hasn’t heard in six months. Not a word, not a visit, not a parting glimpse on the street. Nothing. Just a cold, unexpected separation preceded by the harshest blow yet—a lie.

It’s juvenile and immature of her, yes, to clutch so tightly and so viciously to this. To be thinking so hard and so desperately about it, to feel like a rejected lover cast aside for something—some _one_ —and to want an answer. To want him to return and make apologies which she knows he’ll never make. Part of her heart speaks softly, cruelly, a continuous reminder that she should take some responsibility for it as the one who shut down so quickly and did not speak out before he left. The rest of her heart is stronger, louder, clinging to anger, and places the true burden on his shoulders. If he hadn’t lied to her, she would have at least said goodbye. But he did. He lied to her. He _lied_ to her.

“Any bets on who Gordon will rescue first?” Gilzean continues, ignoring or unaware of her internal turmoil, addressing his companion, with the same arrogance in both voice and expression, as he strolls around from the couch to stand in front of them. “His lovely lady,” he nods to Barbara, who squirms and fists her hands even closer together, and then looks to Iris, “or this precious little one here?”

He reaches out for her face, as though to pinch her cheek and treat her like a cherub doll. She feels a sudden, violent surge at the first ghosting brush, before he even has a chance to make full contact, and it shatters her better judgment. She doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t contemplate consequences or think of different courses of action. Instead, her hand rushes forward and strikes the offending hand away in the same moment she stands, steps away from the couch, and moves near the window. No one touches her. Not like that. No one, except _him_. The one who touched her first, who ran his fingers within her hair and kissed her brow and made her laugh and smile and filled her with all sorts of emotions and sensations…

The one who left her, without a word, without any hint of when he would come back, if he ever meant to return. The one who has left this inexplicable hole in her heart, a weight on her mind, questions without answers. The one who lied to her as though it was nothing, as though it was the most natural thing to do. What he has done to her has no proper name, and it’s a crueler fate than taking her life. She wonders if it wouldn’t have been better for him to have killed her that night. Kill her, remove her from this world, and never begin to weave these strange, tentative threads between them.

She shouldn’t care. She would be within her right to let this man touch her, as some obscure form of revenge, but she won’t and can’t because there is, somehow, some way, some impossible way, a chance Victor will come back. She has to believe it. He will come back. He always comes back.

“Do not touch me.” She commands, her voice cold and her gaze hardened. No one touches her. Save one.

Gilzean reacts as she expected, because she knows men like him and she knows how well they respond to being told no, so when he backhands her across the face and her lip cracks and splits from the blow, she holds her ground and doesn’t fall to the floor like a battered wife. She hears Barbara gasp softly, then the noise is stifled, like she bit her lips to suck it back in.

“You’ve got an attitude, little girl.” Gilzean says, tone low and dangerous. “I don’t like it when people give me attitude.”

“That,” she answers, wiping away a thin trickle of blood with her knuckles, never looking away from him, “is because you are a spoiled man, Mr. Gilzean. You were never told _no_ as a child, were you?”

“Iris, for God’s sake…” Barbara hisses, a warning from a woman terrified out of her wits and in need of her shining knight to come rescue her.

“No, I do not think you were.” She continues calmly, keeping her eyes trained on his face. “Everything you wanted, no matter the poor timing, the ridiculousness of it, or the lacking financial accessibility, it was given to you. And as you got older, at some point, people outside the family started telling you no. And you really did not like it. And _that_ ,” she lifts her eyebrow slightly, “is when, I am guessing, you began to learn that if words did not get the prize, violence does.”

He smirks, but it’s not the kind of smirk she’s used to. Not the kind she likes and appreciates; he doesn’t know how to smirk. Not like Victor. Oh, is God truly so merciless and cruel that she can think of no one else, that she can compare those around her to him and only him, that even now he consumes and taints her every thought? What crime did she commit that this is now her punishment?

“You’re a clever little girl.” Gilzean notes, stepping closer. “That why Gordon keeps you around?”

“Among other reasons.”

The words are followed immediately by a gunshot, ringing loud and sharp through the apartment, and the other man drops to the ground, howling in pain. Barbara loses a sharp gasp, mixed with a relieved sob, and Gilzean whips around, hand going for his gun. Once again, Iris doesn’t pause, even when she probably should, but instead sinks her nails into his wrist before he can grab it. It isn’t much of a delay, but it’s enough. Enough of a delay that he misses his chance to seize his gun and James crosses the distance between them to press the barrel of his gun to the large man’s head.

Silence follows, save for the wheezing gasps of the injured man on the floor and Barbara’s stifled whimpers. Iris steps away, somewhere between James and Barbara, and stares with a vacant expression and eyes that see beyond walls and windows. Distantly, she hears James tell Gilzean that he can leave quietly and take his man with him, and he can tell Don Falcone and Fish Mooney to back off, and he can leave both Iris and Barbara alone. Or he can catch a bullet in his head. It’s his choice.

Later, when the men have taken their leave, quietly and without further incident, while Barbara is dissolving into James’ arms with muffled sobs and clutching hands, and he is telling her to leave town, that she must go away and go as far as possible until this all settles down, Iris stands alone on the balcony. The night is cold and the sky is dark and the moon is full. Full and bright and beautiful. She stands there, alone, letting the cold air wash over her and the moonlight bathe her in pale light. 

She feels like a child. There have been a few times in her life when she’s genuinely, legitimately felt like a child—not many, but a few—and right now is one of them. She shouldn’t have just stayed quiet and let him leave like that. She should have called out for him, right then and there. She should have stopped him when he started to walk out the door and made her confession. She should have, could have, and didn’t.

But he lied to her. He lied to her, and then he left her. She cannot reasonably expect an apology, because Victor apologies for nothing in life, but at least come back. Come back, _please, oh God, come back_. She can’t stand this. Too much, too much emotion, stirring within her like a storm, draining her, sapping away strength and poise and grace. Every day, it is only barely that she pulls herself together, composed and calm, and never lets a hint of her inner turmoil show.

But inside, she is the doll, that beautiful doll with a splintered soul and a rippling crack in its heart. It’s illogical and impossible and it can’t be happening to her, because she feels nothing—she proved as much, studying herself and noting all her faults—and yet she does. She feels too much. She can’t breathe. She barely sleeps. She pretends to eat and then quietly disposes of it because food tastes like ash. She hates this. She hates herself for being so weak. Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she hates _him_.

At some point, she registers the inward clench of her hands, not against her shirt, but below, against bare flesh, and she feels the prick and sting. It is a familiar pain, and she welcomes it. Pain is a distraction, a release, and she feels it seep out in the thin trickles of blood running down her skin. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Not this time, not for this. This is much worse, far worse than before, and the pain isn’t enough.

The first response is a sharp gasp, because she is unaccustomed to this and unfamiliarity breeds surprise and a sudden shock to the system. She clenches further, deeper, harder; her body has overcome its instinctual response once before, years ago. Finally, after five long minutes, it does so again. But it changes nothing of the pain. There’s a distinct clench in her stomach, nausea, and her vision swims in and out of focus. Fifteen more minutes, counting second by second, her body revolts against her, and she continues to defy it. She abuses herself, punishes herself for her weak soul and her bleeding heart, in the only way she knows.

She lets the tears come, fall silently, and eventually dry against her face. She doesn’t sob or wail or give any such dramatics. She lets herself cry and get it over with. The salt stings her injured lip. When she’s done, her eyes feel dry and burn a little, she has a dull headache blossoming at her left temple, her abdomen is throbbing and bleeding, and she feels sick.

She curls both hands tight around the balcony rail, tilts her head up, and lets the evening breeze brush away her lingering tears. By the time she goes back inside the loft, there are be no signs that she has cried, shed tears, or felt any true emotions from the ordeal tonight. Her clothing is dark, and though the blood is wet, the stains do not appear. Neither James nor Barbara suspect anything, and she bids them both good night and disappears into her room.

She barely has time to lock her bathroom door before she drops to her knees, hands frantically clutching the porcelain rim, and the violent rush of nausea hits her without warning. She empties her stomach, twice over, and even when there is nothing left, her body still expels dry heave after dry heave. Her throat burns, and her split lip feels like it is on fire. She’s shaking, coughing uncontrollably, and each motion sends a fresh pulse to her stomach. She will have to throw these clothes away. There will be no saving them now, not after tonight. At some point, she realizes she’s crying again. This time, she’s sobbing. No words form on her lips or on her tongue, but there is only one word to be spoken, and she dare not, not when there are ears nearby that could hear. But the word—the _name_ —pounds within her ears, a relentless beat, a cruel rhythm, and each time she hears his name, a silent shriek in the depths of her heart and her mind, the tears begin anew.

He will come back. He will. He has to come back.

***

James personally takes both her and Barbara to the train station the next morning; if he notices the way Iris is walking slower, each step measured, and the way she has to take a deep breath after bending over, he doesn’t say anything. She doubts he does notice. His mind is frantically calculating, trying to take care of what he loves most before putting himself back on the front lines and directly in the line of fire.

They purchase the tickets at the counter, the first train out of Gotham, and then spend a few short minutes on the platform. He makes Barbara swear she won’t come back until he tells her it’s safe, if he ever does. She pleads with him, asks him to let her stay at his side and says, through more tears, she can’t live without him. He kisses her, three times, and tells her she has to go. It’s for her safety. He asks her to take care of Iris.

He then pulls Iris into a tight embrace, kisses her head, and repeats the same instructions. She meets his eye, and the rehearsed response slides onto her tongue. She knows, intellectually, that she needs to answer in the affirmative, make the necessary promises, and reassure him. She knows it’s for the best that they leave and never come back. They can’t stay here. It’s not safe.

Her lips part, and then the words die on her tongue. She can only stare blankly at him as the reality of it all hits her, hard and without mercy. Leave? Leave Gotham? Never come back? How could she ever agree to that? This is where she was born. This is her home. How could she ever…?

“Iris, come on.” Barbara says, tugging at her hand. “We have to go. The train is leaving.”

_We have to go?_ Her mind is failing her, hearing the words and then tossing them away because they make no sense. They should. She knows they should make sense. It’s the rational, logical thing to do. They have to leave. It’s not safe.

But…

Barbara pulls her onto the train, and they both watch James walk away. He’ll go back to the precinct, the selfless and unsung hero of Gotham, to face the underground and fight and fight until he either claws his way out, victorious, or lies dead and battered on the ground. And she will disappear with Barbara into another city, another place, somewhere they will never be found. Somewhere they can be anything they want, whoever they want. They can begin new lives. They can be safe.

Her hand settles over her stomach, and the damaged skin throbs in response. Her wounds speak to her with silent voices, like a child in the womb speaking out to its mother. And, really, is it not so? These scars are a part of her, and they were created by her. These scars are her child, the unborn existing within her, kept safe and protected, but it fights for freedom and whispers to her in silence. _Let me out. Set me free. Give me life._ Perhaps, each time she digs within her own flesh and claws deeper and deeper, she is answering the pleas, seeking to set her creation free, and each time she stops, because whatever lies within her may be as good as her child, her own creation, hers and hers alone, but it terrifies her and the day she sees its true face is a day she dreads with all her heart and soul.

“Let’s go find our seats.” Barbara murmurs, already walking down the long aisle. She doesn’t look back over her shoulder. She probably assumes Iris will follow, that she appreciates the danger of the situation and wouldn’t do anything foolish. Perhaps, years ago, when she was but a child and so thoroughly devoid of her own willpower, she might have been wiser in the moment.

But she’s not a child anymore. She is a woman, and as she stares out the window, listens to the train declare its departure, clarity suddenly bursts forth from the depths of her mind. The world is suddenly bright and clear, a burning and cold light for a harsh reality and a violent surge of understanding. It is an ugly, terrifying, horrific truth, but it is hers and if she does not accept it, if she does not embrace it and claim it as her own, she will die. Dramatic, perhaps, but she knows, in this moment of absolute clarity, it is the truth. 

***

The Gotham Police Department is a bustling hive of uniformed officers, desk clerks, and detectives dressed in cheap, well-worn suits. It’s the late afternoon hour, when everyone is either coming in for their shift or leaving for the day with great eagerness. It’s the time of day in the life of Gotham’s finest when everyone is in the same place at the same time and the bull pen—ever so appropriately named—is a human-sized insect colony.

Victor makes his way through the open doorway with calm confidence; no one tosses him a questioning glance until he’s actually strolling throughout the pen itself, and even then it’s only because he’s making a point of looking over every desk, taking in the face of each and every man and woman who happens to cross his line of vision. His girls are making a bit more of scene than necessary, but he lets them have their fun. It’s not like these fine officers have never had the company of a woman in black leather before.

His orders are clear but with room for interpretation. Bring Jim Gordon in, and bring him in alive. Don Falcone wants to talk to him, and he wants him alive for their talk. Fortunately, alive is a broad category. A man can be alive with all variety of injury or physical damage. A man can be alive with no hands, no eyes, and even no tongue. He supposes he has to leave the eyes, because Don Falcone likes to have a man look at him when they’re speaking. And he probably should leave the tongue, because talking does tend to work best when both parties can actually speak. But a man doesn’t need his hands to carry on a conversation.

He ultimately has to make a scene, because he can’t find what he’s looking for and no one stops to ask if they can assist him. Their customer service around here leaves something to be desired.

“Hello, everyone,” he greets, ever the gentleman, with a polite nod and good posture, “my name is Victor Zsasz.”

For the sake of time, because it really is a precious thing and he doesn’t like wasting it, he gets right to the point. He’s sent here by Don Carmine Falcone to collect Jim Gordon. Only him, he adds, even though there are a few others here that he’d like to spend some quality time with, and he promises that if everyone else just minds their business, they’ll be good to go. That promise is the one to get results; people, he’s found, are incredibly cooperative when they are given verbal reassurance of their safety.

He follows the direction of their silent stares, into a closed office, where he sees a man and a woman inside, talking. He doesn’t know the woman and doesn’t care, but he recognizes Jim. Now, after five years, he has a name to match with the face. Now, after five years, he knows the identity of the uniformed police officer who was spending so much time around Iris, treating her like a fragile flower that had been trampled on too many times and just needed a little love and affection to make her blossom again.

Jim Gordon. This is the man who swept Iris up as a guardian angel, a knight in shining armor. The man who inserted himself into her life, took her into his home, gave her a job in this pit of corruption and brought her to work amongst spineless worms and back-stabbing liars. This is the man who took her from him.

Gordon is calm and rigid as he answers the summons and steps out of the office. He’s determined to stand his ground, to be strong, and to be unafraid, no matter what. He looks across the bull pen and sees another lackey who follows orders like an animal, with plenty of bark and no bite. He’s not impressed. It’s written all over his face.

“I’m supposed to take you in alive.” Victor says, keeping his voice calm, determined to not betray just how thoroughly he’d love to spend some quality time with this man, alone, in his basement. “Don Falcone wants to talk to you, and to Iris DeLaine. She is still living with you, right?”

The last part isn’t completely true. Falcone told him to bring Iris in, if possible. He said he might like to see her, take her in with his own eyes and speak to her after all these years. He said he might enjoy seeing how the girl became a woman, and what kind of woman she is. Don Falcone didn’t say he needed to, but he _did_ say that it would be nice to see her and talk with her. And that’s a loophole Victor is willing to work with.

He sees Jim’s jaw lock, and he knows a nerve has been touched. He sees that Jim is protective of Iris, like a father to his child. But he doesn’t need to be, because Iris doesn’t need Jim. She has him. She doesn’t need Jim, or any of these other people. She has him. She belongs to him.

“Tell Falcone he and I will talk, but not today.” Jim answers, coolly. “And tell him he has no need to talk to Iris. She’s not part of this.”

“Don’t,” his hands clench tightly, as he sucks in a slow breath, then relax as he releases it, “be _that way_.” _She is part of this_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. “Just tell me where Iris is, and we can all go about our merry way.” 

_I don’t need you alive_ , he silently adds. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t need this man alive. This man is an interference, an intrusion, and he needs to be erased. All Jim has to do is put up a fight, and he’ll have a valid excuse for Don Falcone why it just wasn’t possible to bring him in alive. And then he can find Iris, because she has to be here. She has to be close. Part of him is waiting to see her eyes appear around the corner, emerge from the shadows, and he knows she’ll come if he calls. She’s his. She belongs to him. Not Jim.

“She’s not part of this.”

He’s officially starting to get annoyed. “ _Alive_ is a very broad category.” He says. “A man with no hands,” he won’t threaten any other part of him, because Don Falcone will probably get upset if Jim here is dragged in bloody and missing various parts of his anatomy, “can still be _alive_.”

“There are fifty cops in here,” Jim reminds him, as though he needed to be reminded of that, “try something.”

Now, he’s beyond annoyed. Now, he’s had a nerve pinched one too many times and been rubbed the wrong way. And Iris is still nowhere to be found. She has to be here. _Where_ is she?

The thought hits him, without warning and at a most inopportune moment. If Iris isn’t here, if Gilzean made a scene and sent the message to Gordon that his loved ones aren’t safe in Gotham…is she even still here? Is she even still in the city? Or did her self-appointed guardian rush her out of town, setting her off for a better place where she would be safe from the mob, from the viper’s pit that is this city’s underground? Is she gone? Did Gordon send her away? 

No. No, absolutely not. Iris would never leave. She would never leave him. She is his. _She is mine._

“Everybody out.” He orders, eyes locked on Jim, envisioning a few different ways to remove him by force. Maybe a bullet in each knee. Or maybe just one bullet in the gut. A man can easily survive a bullet in the lower part of his torso. It’s the upper cavity he has to avoid. Or any major arteries. That could cause problems. 

Nobody moves, and it pinches another nerve. “ _Please_?” he adds, glowering at the insolent defiance. Really, does he have to _beg_ for a little cooperation? 

Finally, he gets results. Everyone files out, en masse, and then it’s just him, his girls, and this insolent little man who still isn’t taking him seriously. _I can handle this_ , Jim says, calm and casual. He thinks all he has to do is fire a couple rounds and they’ll retreat. He thinks this is like Gilzean, the mindless ape, who came back with his tail between both legs. He thinks he can handle this. Just like he thinks he can take Iris, because he knows her, because he can take care of her. 

No. No, never. _You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Jim Gordon._

Jim fires the first round and misses. The girls return fire, and then Victor joins in. It gets loud in here. Bullets are flying, left and right, glass windows are shattering, wood desks and doorframes are exploding and splintering, and it gets messy in here. And Jim is still not cooperating. Even when he catches a bullet in the side, he won’t play nice. 

The bullet does at least make tracking him easier; the blood stains and pools along the ground are like following a trail of breadcrumbs, down the stairs, out the back door, and into the parking garage. There’s plenty of cars here, lined up neatly in row after row, ideal for a hiding place, but blood doesn’t lie. And his eyes can see a blood drop a mile away. 

“Jim…” he calls out, whistling as he would to summon a stray dog, “Why are you hiding from me, Jim?” 

No answer, but the blood pools are growing larger, and are closer together. “You’re making this far more difficult than it needs to be, Jim.” He adds, eyes focused on the trail laid out before his feet. “All I want is to know where Iris is.” The stains are even bigger now. “Just tell me where I can find her, and we’ll all take a little trip.” 

He curls his fingers even tighter around the gun, taking a few more steps towards the largest blood pool, near the back bumper of one patrol car. “I’ll even stitch you up.” _Without anesthesia_ , but a free patch job should never be turned down. “Now, come on out and play nice with me." 

_Give her back to me_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. _You stole her from me, and I want her back._ Three more steps, and he’s quite certain he can hear a little shuffling from the car, like someone trying to scamper away. _You won’t take her._

A sudden shout from behind, back at the entrance, breaks the moment and cuts into his concentration. Between the time it takes him to turn around and see the intruder—who really should have minded her own business like everyone else—watch his girls put two bullets in her, and then turn back, Jim is already halfway towards the exit. He grits his teeth, stands up, and takes careful aim. No major arteries, nowhere near the heart, just the lower half… 

The bullet flies, and Jim hits the ground. Perfect. Now, if he can just get the stubborn fool to the mansion without fuss, the day might not yet be a complete loss. He still doesn’t know exactly where Iris is, but that should be easy enough to find. There has to be someone in the precinct who will be kind enough to just give a simple answer. He can find her, get her out of this human hive, and while Don Falcone is dealing with Jim, they can be alone. She will come when he calls. She always comes to him. 

The sound of tires squealing precedes the arrival of another car, darting to a stop in front of Gordon; both car doors open, and bullets start flying again. His jaw locks, the irritation no longer minor but instead a complete inconvenience. They’re keeping him from his prey. They’re keeping him from dragging Gordon off his feet, watching his face contort with the pain, adding pressure in the right places until he breaks this little man apart and squeezes Iris’ location out of his throat. They’re keeping him from Iris. They’re keeping him from his girl. 

The bullets he exchanges do nothing. He doesn’t even hit a tire, let alone bust out a window or leave a graze on somebody’s limb. He can only watch the car speed out of the parking lot and leave him in the dust, and then all that’s left is to deal with the initial distraction, the reason he’s lost his prey today. 

The bullet entering her head is satisfying enough, but not completely. As he makes the twenty-eighth mark on his skin, he doesn’t feel as content as he should. The sight of her dead body means nothing, and the burning thrum of another mark lacks the usual satisfaction. He feels incredibly frustrated and very irritated. He’s lost his prey, he still doesn’t know where Iris is, and he almost emptied his entire gun with minimal results. He’s off his game, and that really pisses him off. 

His eyes scan the garage, looking for a figure in the shadows, seeking any sign that she’s there, watching and waiting for him to call, and he finds nothing. She isn’t here. The bitter truth is, she may not even be in the city. And he has no way of finding her. 

*** 

“I pulled two bullets from him.” The dark-haired woman tells her, speaking quietly so as not to wake James. “He’s lost quite a bit of blood, but he’ll be alright. I’m hoping he’ll be up in a few hours.” 

Iris thanks her quietly, then turns in place to look at Detective Montoya and Detective Allen. The latter offers a murmur of _Good to see you again_ , which is ridiculous and unnecessary. The last time she had the pleasure of his company was under similar circumstances. Except this time, she does have a relationship with the victim, and she does know of someone who would want to do him harm. 

“Iris,” Detective Montoya says quietly, looking at her with a serious but compassionate expression, “do you know the man we described to you? The man who shot Jim?” 

“No.” she answers, barely blinking. The lie falls like a raindrop, soft and light, and without any hint of deception on her tongue. Neither of them looks suspicious, only additionally concerned. Detective Allen tells her they want to put her under police protection, that the man who hurt James is possibly coming after her next. 

She knows it’s true. She knows Victor wasn’t just there for James, that he was very likely seeking her, and it fills her with an overwhelming, sickening sensation of relief. It’s overwhelming, because it means she was right and even after six months he came back for her. It’s sickening, because he’s the reason James is lying unconscious on a table in a university laboratory with two bullets in him. This is all wrong. All of it is wrong. 

But…he came back for her. 

She tells both of them she doesn’t need protection. She doesn’t need it and she doesn’t want it. They both try to change her mind. They don’t succeed. She tells them she’s going home, and to please take care of James. 

She leaves the university and begins the long walk from the city to the outskirts, to the Falcone property. Grandmother told her stories about this place, about growing up in this house with her mother and father and her brother. Grandmother told her so many stories, especially about her brother, Carmine. How they were so different growing up, and then things changed when their father died. Death brought them closer together. Death made them understand that blood is blood, and family needs one another. Family should never be separated. Blood is blood. 

An attractive young woman with soft honeycomb waves and dressed in a modest white dress answers the door; she looks very much like the photograph Grandmother once showed her of her great-grandmother, with the large eyes and red lips and slender built and gracious demeanor. She introduces herself as Liza, and asks if she can be of any assistance. 

When Liza is told she would like to see the master of the house, her eyebrows lift in polite curiosity, and she asks why. Iris repeats her request, and this time no inquiries follow. Liza, apparently, is well-versed in manners, and common courtesy, and in understanding silent cues when it comes to what questions should be asked, and what questions should not be asked. 

She is led down a few halls and brought to a set of double doors. Liza tells her, quietly, that the master of the house is inside, and that she’ll be in the kitchen if Iris has need of her. She says she’s trying her hand at baking muffins, and she’d be happy to share one later, once they’re all done. Iris smiles politely and thanks her. 

Inside, she finds the elder man at his desk, studying some papers with great focus. He doesn’t look up when she enters, and that tells her he isn’t expecting company, didn’t hear her, or thinks perhaps she is Liza. That, in and of itself, tells her, Liza is a very trusted member of his estate, and someone he doesn’t think twice about letting near him. It’s possible he could feel more for Liza than just trust. 

“Don Falcone,” she finally says, breaking into his concentration and bringing his blue eyes up to meet hers, “I think the time has come for us to speak face to face.” 

*** 

“I’m very glad you came, Iris.” Don Falcone says, offering her a cup of the tea Liza poured, only a few minutes ago, and settling back in his chair. “I hardly recognize you.” 

“It has been nearly six years.” She murmurs, taking a careful sip. “People change.” 

“Yes, of course,” he nods, nevertheless still staring intently at her face, almost memorizing every detail, “It’s just you look so very much like…” 

He pauses, and out of curiosity, she invites him to continue. Part of her worries he’s about to declare her the spitting image of her mother, but there is a deep-set fondness in his expression that assures her otherwise. He’s looking at her as though he’s seeing the ghost of someone he loved very much, very deeply. Someone he would like to see again, and is seeing, right now, in her. 

“Sylvia.” He finishes in a whisper, the emotion weighing heavy on his tongue and in his eyes. “You look…just like her. For a moment, when you walked in here, I truly thought I was seeing her again. I wondered if maybe I was haunted by an old ghost.” 

“Gotham is a city of ghosts, Don Falcone,” she says quietly. “Just as it is a city of demons. Some run and hide from theirs, and the rest of us dance with ours.” 

He smiles, praises her elegant tongue, and then, once the tea has been drunk and the cups set aside, the real conversation begins. 

Don Falcone asks her many questions. He starts with the night Marcus put five bullets in his wife, and then a final bullet in his head. He asks about the time she spent in the group home, and how she came to know James Gordon, and how he came to have her in his custody. He asks her about the college years, congratulates her on earning two degrees by her eighteenth birthday, and declares she put even her grandmother’s brilliance to shame. He also asks how she came to work at the Gotham Police Department, and why she elected to work in the medical examiner’s office instead of at James’ side as an officer. 

As she once did to many police officers, and as she once did to several therapists and counsels at the group home, she recounts the night she was orphaned, without much emphasis on one detail or another, because the media coverage, more or less, has long-since addressed everything. She tells him about her first meeting with James, and how he fought for her to remain out of the system, and how a spur-of-the-moment declaration that he would sooner take her himself than let her go into the system brought him into the adoption process. Don Falcone seems very impressed, and makes a comment about how that would be just what James’ father would have done. 

She doesn’t go into great detail about her college years, because she has noticed, of all the questions he asked, not a single one of them include Victor. Which tells her Victor has not mentioned to Don Falcone the continuation of nor the depth of their relationship—obscure and undefined as it is—and she personally sees no need or reason to delve into additional details for which the elder has not asked. Perhaps, later, he will think to ask, but likely not. It is far more likely he truly doesn’t know, and she doesn’t feel it’s necessary to tell him. No one could ever understand. She doesn’t even understand it herself. 

They spend quite a bit of time discussing her current occupation as an assistant in the medical examiner’s office. He doesn’t ask for case-specific details, but he seems enthralled with the way her mind operates, how she looks at things and sees what others do not. He tells her that is beyond the mind of a businesswoman, or even a mafia don. He tells her that is something unique to her, something no one else in her family has ever displayed, and certainly nothing her parents could have passed on to her. She smiles and nods and accepts his praise with grace. She’s heard this before. Many people find the inner workings of her mind either fascinating or troublesome. It is an old song. 

When Liza knocks on the door and says dinner is ready, the conversation ends and Don Falcone makes a half-surprised comment about how late the hour has grown. He invites her to stay and eat with them, and she accepts because there is still a bounty on James’ head, and while Don Falcone is being cordial and gracious right now, she knows he is still thinking about the one police officer who didn’t do as he was told, and there may yet be a price to pay. She is not Don Falcone’s guest. She is his collateral, the ace up his sleeve for if and when James tries for heroics, and while she may be treated well, she is still a prisoner. Making things difficult for herself is not an option. 

“I’d like you to stay the night, Iris.” Don Falcone says, while he’s sipping a post-dinner glass of brandy and Liza is cleaning up the dining area. “I’m sure Liza wouldn’t mind lending you something to wear. Please. I can even put you up in your grandmother’s old room, so you’ll be more comfortable.” 

Again, she smiles and thanks him for the hospitality. If Gotham is a city of ghosts, and everyone has their own, spending the night in a room with her own ghost seems at least a pleasant idea, compared to the alternative. It may provide her with some comfort to know she is sleeping in the same place her grandmother once slept, and perhaps her ghost will linger in the room and protect her tonight. 

Liza’s dress won’t fit her perfectly—she can tell that much just by looking at it—but it will work well enough. There’s a bathroom in this room, and she spends an hour soaking in a hot bath. She wonders if James is alright, if and when he removed himself from the makeshift hospital, and what he is doing right now. He’s not sleeping, she knows that much; he’s probably calculating his next move, and she has no doubt it’s going to be a very heroic and halfway insane move. Hopefully it won’t get him killed. He is a good man, and Gotham needs a good man. There are so few left. 

She finishes her bath, braids her hair, and pauses before the mirror for a few minutes. Her eyes drop to her stomach, and slowly, teeth clenching down on her lips, fingertips brush a slow touch over the scars. She’s so very pale that each glare out as though she just made them moments ago, and the fresh ones burn her eyes just by looking at them. She jerks her hand away, slips into the nightdress, and exhales relief as the white cotton and soft lace hide the marks away. It’s better this way. 

As she exits the bathroom, she pauses again to look out the window. The night is dark, the sky is clouded, but the moon is still out tonight, illuminating the dark clouds and sending rays creeping through her window. It’s a friendly sight tonight, and she sets a hand to the glass panes, just for a moment, to trace the glow pattern with light touches. It’s childish, but it makes her happy. 

When her hand drops back to her side, it’s because she needs to turn around, because the game is growing old and she’s a little too tired to keep playing it. She leans back against the window, lifts her eyebrows delicately, and sighs quietly. “Good evening, Victor.” 


End file.
